The year was 1961. Outside the famous Grauman’s Theater in Boston, John Belushi was walking home from rehearsal when he ran into an eager young fan. “Mister Belushi!” he cried. “How can I grow up to be famous like you?”
“Well,” said Belushi, and pulled a shiny quarter from behind his ear. “You know what the writing on the back of this says?”
“Gee, I don’t!”
“In God We Trust,” said John Belushi. “If you remember that, you might just make it in show biz.” The boy dried his eyes and nodded with determination.
That young man’s name? Was Babe Ruth.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
His steps (so precise) break the thin crust of ice in the grove of dark, bare cherry trees. It’s silent and cold. His father once told him the hunter must move like the breeze.
His hands have gone numb; he carries no gun, but a warped, unreliable bow. He’s searching for tracks, but the matter of fact is that some paws leave no mark on snow.
His quarry’s aground, curled up warm and sound in a burrow deep under the frost. He’s a fool to give chase. Yet he does, with the pace of a man who denies that he’s lost.
Brought to you by Ben Wray
“Okay, what about exceptions?”
“I need your exceptiona-” but then Kay’s rudely interrupted.
“Notimetoexplain!” Mario grabs her and spacetime rearranges itself in a flash of light. They’re just in time for the closing words.
“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit,” solmenly quotes Toe. “Death is but a door, time is but a window…”
“Is he quoting Ghostbusters 2 or 8-bit theater?” asks Jake, but Dylan kicks him, hard, and he shuts up.
Everybody’s there. Zach, Rob, Asuka’s doctor, Zaganza, Shelly, your favorite character not already mentioned… everybody.
Then Millicent’s paw thrusts triumphantly out of the ground suck it Brendan I win forever.
A story by John Dixon
“Sarge is hit!â€
“Where’s the medic?â€
“He’s dead, sir.â€
“Push forward, men! Take that outpost with grenades!â€
Clusters of green and tan collide with grim finality.
The guns are silent. Not a single figure moves.
The man shifts a faltering lad to the nearby couch and gently pulls a sheet halfway up his small form. Marty slides the remaining distance into slumber within a minute. Surveying a random terrain of wadded blankets and shattered wood-block fortifications, his grandfather leaves the door ajar. Battle’s aftermath in the raking shafts of dawn will provide a more satisfying morning picture than tidied carpet.
A story by Holly Gramazio
“Nothing lasts for ever,” Lewis says, and watches a fat pigeon as it hops. “It’s like, sometimes three seasons is enough, you know?”
Abigail doesn’t look up. “This is a friend-dump, right?” she says, finally.
“No!”
“It’s okay if it is.”
“No, of course not. It’s not that. I was just wondering if,” and he trails off. The pigeon compresses each time it lands, like a beach ball. “When you think you might stop playing Drop7.” Even for an hour. It’s been weeks. He’s worried.
“You shut the fuck up about Drop7, pigeon boy,” she says, and touches Play Again.
A story by Laurie J Rich
Elua expected a job with the One World Shadow Government™ would be conspiracy and magic. Turns out, it’s kind of a drag.
If you’re the best in the world at anything, they’ll find you. She didn’t hesitate to sign after hearing that. They sell you on jobs for spies, historians, authors — they don’t mention some are downright mundane. And once you’re in, there’s no variety, no advancement, no reprieve.
The pay is great but the contract’s terrible. The door beeps and she turns to greet her customer, one hand on the register, smile aching. Twenty years to retirement, and she feels every minute.
A story by Josh Hadley
Her hut was covered in maps, every spare surface cluttered with charts and diagrams. The rooms were roughly divided by theme:
The kitchen housed local maps, intricate and precise to the tiniest detail (plotting the shift of sand dunes on each new season’s winds);
The living room was for maps of the region, annotated with historical revisions (whenever she judged history to have occurred);
And the bedroom held maps of the earth and sea, star maps, and maps that probed at the abscess of the darkest reaches beyond.
She collected geographies, and never left her shack. Could the world really compare?
Matthew Gagan is +Hard
In his vest and duster Jackson walks the pier where the unfortunate stink and are like ghosts.
By fanboat and skiff, seeking refuge, more and more of these have come to The Wake’s least submerged tower, this Camelot where Jackson is troubled knight.
Gaunt and of indeterminate gender, this one intrigues Jackson. Their eyes were recently put out.
“From Haaran?” Jackson questions. Most refugees are from that tower; its hardholder Dustwich is a scary fucker.
“Mmm.” affirms Tao.
At that amorphous word, Jackson is unnerved. Interesting.
Jackson’s hand gropes for his revolver and he opens his brain to the psychic maelstrom.